Perfecting a chaotic desire
by sunofthemoon
Summary: It should surprise her that the need for confrontation would be the only thing to satisfy both fear and arousal, but Emma tucks her hands into her pockets casually and awaits the arrival of the only person who infuriates her up until this day. OR A season 6 au featuring fear, arousal, and an aching amount of love for the darkest parts of Regina.


**A/N**: Non-graphic smut toward the end.

* * *

She shivers when she awakens; her hands have a permanent tremor to them now, her eyes twitch as she adjusts to the morning light. Between the dreams of dying, there are other more sinful things that make her ache with want— today she has time for none of that, not with a town to save and a family too expectant of things she can't give.

The ache lingers, however, burning her skin with the same energy that her magic uses. The danger that rests in her pores should worry her, but Emma shakes off the feeling and continues her morning routine.

Teeth brushed, body washed, and breakfast on the table.

Her posture is straight, her outfit floral enough to pass for feminine, and there's just about too little on her plate to maintain a figure that feels too small to belong to her anymore. Emma is perfect, and all that's missing is a string of pearls around her neck with too high heels on her feet. Practicality calls for denim and leather boots, a less than perfect appearance she has to endure with the same burden as the title of Saviour.

Killian makes his appearance known with a stumbling gait and bleary vision, hair a mess that he pushes away from his face to better kiss her cheek. The stench of alcohol lingers on his breath, but the most she gives him is a look of disappointment he winces at.

Emma can sense that he hides something from her, but she makes no move to participate in any small talk that might reveal his secrets. There are dreams about her death, and an ache between her thighs that will not solve itself, no matter if Killian will happily aid her in reaching half a peak before collapsing in exhaustion. The thought of his half-hearted attempts of pleasure make the tick under her eye intensify, a thick swallow willing the irritation away.

Out of the door and into the street, Emma forgoes the use of her trusty bug to engage in the town as a resident this morning. After her stint as the Dark One, she must admit that any opportunity to avoid the townsfolk had been taken with both hands; the decision to face her fears today might be due to her impending death, or the errant thought that lodges its way into her brain and will not leave for anything.

Pedestrians are greeted, a wave and smile as required. They will not ask where she goes if she does not look guilty.

It should surprise her that the need for confrontation would be the only thing to satisfy both fear and arousal, but Emma tucks her hands into her pockets casually and awaits the arrival of the only person who infuriates her up until this day.

She waits five minutes, ten, half an hour.

Her agitation grows, her mouth unwilling to call out to the sky like a bird looking for a mate. Does Emma still seek one despite belonging to Killian?

The thought of belonging to someone doesn't shock her as much as it would have a few years ago.

From behind her, a voice says, "you astound me," and Emma's shoulders relax with too much ease. The Emma from a few years ago that wouldn't have been complacent as Killian's belonging, would have had anger surge up at the sound of Regina— but the deep, husky voice only brings her an odd sort of contentment now.

"Have you made me wait long enough?" She sounds cocky, too sure of herself as she cranes her neck to get a better look at The Queen. They haven't spoken alone before, always flagged by someone or the other who expects the Saviour to be merciless against a creature of darkness. The town has their _good_ version of Regina now, what use do they have of a fiery Queen with the need for revenge?

Black painted fingernails curl over Emma's shoulder, turning her fully so that they face each other properly. The look of disgust at being Snow White's child isn't there, but rather an intrigue that Emma is still baffled at. "Come to kill me?" The Queen asks, a purr to her voice that reveals too much about her immortality.

"I've come to do worse," Emma confesses, taking a step closer. In her head, she can see the images of Madame Mayor she had first encountered during her stay in Storybrooke; the scheming ways, the seductive undertones of every action. It alarms her as to how much she's truly missed Regina, how much of her has been shaved off to fit the puzzle piece of good that only accepts _parts_ of a person.

Regina's decision to split herself has never made more sense.

Scoffing, the Queen allows her hand to slide down Emma's arm, the leather in her hold squeaking before she lets go entirely. "I've been shunned by _myself_. Nothing is worse than that." She looks so sure of it, the hurt shining in her eyes, her lips twitching downward into an involuntary frown.

Stepping closer, too close, Emma tosses away her perfect training and permits her gaze to roam the Queen's face. It's much like Regina's, identical in every way—but the muscles that are tensed, the darkness to her lips, it's all so different that the only way to be positively sure about it is to reach out and touch. Emma stops herself there, hesitant about getting closer than she can handle. "I can't keep calling you The Queen. It sounds ridiculous in my head."

"I'm in your head, am I?" Taunting, the Queen brings her hand back up to Emma's shoulder, squeezing gently in a way Emma had not thought possible. The ache that has long slipped from the edges of her conscience are dragged back, sheer want thrumming through her veins as she tries to hold back on the fear of dying that accompanies it.

_Should_ _I_ _lie_? She asks herself, torn between stripping herself naked in front of her worst enemy and covering herself up with everything less than the truth. "Yes," she finds herself saying, "I have been thinking about you often."

There's a flirtatious edge to the Queen's movements now, the way she slides her hand up to cup Emma's cheek, thumb grazing her lower lip. "Oh?" she asks, "ways to destroy me?" Despite the undertones of lust, the hurt still prevails— a solid thought of being a villain in a town she has created.

That perfect life she tries to keep slips from her fingers when she leans into the Queen's touch, eyes fluttering closed for a minute. "No," she breathes, still irritated at having to refer to the Queen as an object, a product of Regina who is more than yesterday's trash. Opening her eyes, Emma takes a breath, the Queen staring at her curiously. "_Regina_," she says, the name falling from her lips like a prayer.

A gasp, one tiny and grateful comes from the Queen, her hand pulling back to leave Emma's reddened cheek exposed to the brisk air. "You think of _her_?" she asks, misunderstanding. "You know, I can pretend to be her if you'd like?" The teasing is back, although there's a hardness to her eyes that wasn't there before.

"_Regina_," Emma stresses, the name tasting bitter in her mouth, a repeat of the earlier sweetness that isn't present this time. She wants more, wants to touch and taste, and—

"You," she says, "only you." Perhaps, there is a lie there somewhere, but perfection blends into chaos, and Emma can taste a sense of freedom that lingers within this new want. "Can I kiss you?" she blurts out, the words sounding too loud, too inappropriate.

The flirtatious expression that's permanently fixed upon the Queen's lips glitches, her seduction called out and picked apart by Emma's question. The edges of her lips pick up and then fall down again, her eyes wide and disbelieving—her hand on Emma's shoulder lingers however, and it warms delicately when she squeezes the muscle under her palm just slightly.

"Just a yes or no," Emma probes, stepping back away from their space, the cold air pushing between them.

The Queen seems to consider it, her arm stretching to keep Emma within her reach. This isn't the confrontation she had expected, and she's rarely thrown off guard, but the word, "yes," slips from her before she can stop herself.

Emma nods, taking a further step back, the Queen's hand dropping from her shoulder. "Okay," she says, "okay." When she turns on her heel and disappears, the Queen doesn't follow.

* * *

The next morning, Emma wakes with purpose. Her hands still shake, and she still reaches for something pink to pull on over her denim jeans; but she chooses something tight, a long sleeved fitted shirt that buttons at the front and tucks into the waistband of her denim.

Her morning routine is the same, the mundane tasks centring her as she sits down at the dining room table. This time, when Killian stumbles down after her, an easy smile on his lips, she glares at him with enough heat for him to pause in the doorway.

"Sit," she orders, feeling powerful. "We need to talk."

He tries; Emma can see how he slouches to one side and offers her a charming smile, an excuse ready on his lips. She hates this, hates the perfection that tickles her spine when she drops her posture, the morals that urge her to do this gently instead of rip the band aid off like she's so used to.

She beats him to the chase when he opens his mouth to speak. "I don't love you anymore." The words cut, clear in the meaning with no room to wiggle free. "I need you to leave, I need us to stop being together."

"We can—"

"No, we can't."

It shouldn't be this easy, it shouldn't come with such precise cuts that slice their relationship in half. Killian bows, as if the end of the duel has finally come and Emma dreads to think about who has won. His words of love and whatever else are tuned out, her hands trembling under the table where she tries to hold onto them tightly. He doesn't notice, but Emma makes a point of watching as he limps out of the house, leather jacket clutched within his grasp.

The stench of alcohol somehow lingers. Emma hates it enough to leave too.

The sound of the door slamming behind her seems somewhat satisfying, the dull need for destruction only slightly dimming when the door bounces within its frame. Briskly making her way down the street, hands tucked into her pockets, Emma wonders whether her bravery from the day before will help combat this ache for things she doesn't quite understand. Yesterday it had been lust coupled with fear, today, she craves power after a single taste of it over a breakfast she had neglected to eat.

When she arrives at her destination, the smell of salt and water soothing her, she doesn't have to wait long before a presence makes itself known.

"You didn't keep me waiting for long today."

"No," the Queen agrees, licking her lips to stall for time. She's wearing a velvet dress today, the clinging black fabric decorated with gold embroidery that seems out of place for this simple meeting. Her hair brushes over her shoulders and spills down her back, although her face remains protected from flyaway strands with too many clips that keep the tendrils back.

"You look beautiful today," she whispers, unable to help herself, unable to keep her thoughts locked away. There's no room for perfection here, not when the Queen radiates a sense of chaos that calms the tremor in Emma's hand.

Maybe it was the wrong thing to say, because the Queen remains silent, staring out ahead at the choppy waters below. "Come," she says, ordering Emma much in the same way Emma had ordered Killian that morning. Without question, Emma follows the trail of the Queen's velvet dress, being careful not step on it as she's lead into a cannery. When she looks up, the Queen is too close, her gaze tracking across Emma's face with seriousness.

Emma is acutely aware of where this is going, but her eyes can't seem to stay rooted to one spot. She becomes enraptured by the curve of the Queen's neck, by the jut of her collarbones and the dip of her throat. The need to skim her fingers over olive skin surpasses any other thought, her fingertips coming up to lightly rest on the Queen's throat. "I want…" she swallows, her grip tightening, "I need…"

There isn't any words to describe it, not when there's another version of the Queen running around town playing mayor with shorter hair and a faker smile on her lips.

The Queen brings her palm up to cup Emma's cheek, thumb tracing along her jawline. "Go to the mansion," she says quietly, "she'll love you in ways I cannot."

The audacity to laugh bubbles up in her chest, but Emma swallows it back down. "I don't want to be loved like that," she says instead, pressing in closer to the Queen.

"But you want to be loved?" The question is clever, laced with too many traps that Emma feels giddy for. There's a magnetism between them that feels as if one wrong move would spark a fire that could burn down everything they've both built.

Slim fingers wrap around the Queen's wrist, stroking the tender skin there. "Emma," the Queen warns, watching as Emma dares to touch lower, down her forearm, into the dip of her elbow, up to her biceps. She feels muscle there, strong and taunt under her the pads of her fingers. "_Emma_," the Queen warns once more. Emma ignores her.

"Can I kiss you?" she asks again, free from a relationship, free from the perfection she's tried to hold onto for too long. Stepping in closer, their chests pressed together, Emma can feel how her heart pounds against her ribs, how the Queen's seem to beat in tandem with hers.

A thick swallow from the Queen and a nod is all Emma needs. It's more than enough, too much in fact when the most dramatic woman she knows is reduced to silent gestures.

They lean forward toward each other, lips parted and desperation pouring from them both. It surprises the Queen then, when Emma dips her head and presses a feather light kiss to the nape of her neck instead. A sound of protest mingles into a moan when Emma kisses her more firmly there, taking the skin within her mouth with a gentle force that has her eyes close of their own accord.

"Regina," Emma murmurs against her neck, dragging her lips up to her jaw. She takes her time, savouring the taste of the Queen's skin, the taste of darkness and half a piece of something missing. This is freedom, she thinks, bringing her hands up to caress the Queen's cheek, to feel the height of her cheekbones, the fragility of the skin under her eyes. "I imagined this differently," she confesses, resting her forehead on the Queen's, her eyes closed.

Something has shifted between them, a dip in this enmity that they've both inherited. They clutch onto each other, lips barely brushing, and desire hidden behind masks of morality that only makes them grow hotter. "Tell me," the Queen demands, pushing her face up to try and kiss Emma, but she moves to the side, lips brushing against Emma's cheek instead.

Realistically, nothing ever goes according to the imagination, and this half dance that they do where they neither touch nor caress fully is proof of that. Still, Emma clutches onto the Queen with the fear that she might disappear—and she probably would if anyone from town had an inkling about what they were attempting to do. She can almost hear the calls of the Evil Queen bewitching her, of the Saviour being under a curse. It only makes her want to press against the Queen more, to devour her, to become one with her in ways that make her hurt.

"Quick," she breathes, "I imagined this fast, with little thought for clothing or pain. An escape."

"I can make it happen if you want." A promise, a plea, something that steals Emma's breath away.

Sliding her fingers through the Queen's hair, massaging the nape of her neck, Emma pulls back to look at her properly. "It hurts," she admits, "it hurts to look at you. You…God you're so beautiful."

She expects a blush, something befitting a woman who has been complimented, but the Queen only looks at her with the weight of the world in her eyes. "Only me?" she asks, her voice tiny in the large space around them.

"Only you," Emma breathes against her lips, barely touching them, the tips of her fingers dragging from the base of Regina's neck to rest precariously on the edge of her jaw.

A sharp intake of breath is the only thing she allows, her arms tightening around Emma's shoulders as she finally pulls them closer. Their lips clash, a clumsy meeting that has her wince against Emma's teeth, but it only takes a moment before they caress each other, the action delicate despite the rough start.

Emma feels as if she's on fire, her skin burning with something new and old; legs wobbling under her weight as she leans against the Queen, fingers digging into her cheeks to pull her closer. She wants to do everything and nothing at once, to bite into supple flesh just to taste blood, and lick along the outline of smooth edges to sooth the sting. She does none of that however, fear clinging to her even as she offers a tight lipped kiss that lasts for too long.

When she finally finds the strength to pull away, shoving the Queen back as if burned, Emma brings her fingers up to her lips and swallows a silent scream. Everything she feels is intense, a mixture of emotions that jump from here to there with no logical reasoning. "I don't know what I want."

The Queen swallows thickly, taking a step toward Emma. "You do," she says smoothly, "you're just too afraid to come and get it." Another step forward, her body bending as if she's speaking to a child. Emma feels humiliated, but the Queen continues, "you wonder what people would think, how your parents would react. You can't help but be _perfect_."

"You're wrong." The strength in her words surprises even her, a growl to them that reeks of something just as dark as the Queen herself. The vein in the middle of the Queen's forehead bulges, her lips screwed up in a snarl, and her hair falls forward over her shoulders to have her look more like a witch than anything else Emma has ever seen. She looks stunning like this, raw and unrefined. "I want to be on my knees for you," she hisses, "I want to leave marks on your skin and taste your every thought. I want… I need—"

She can't finish that sentence, the tendons in her neck straining. She wants more than a morning routine, she wants more than to become a belonging. Regina will see her as a friend, as the mother to her child, but the Queen sees her—all of her, and Emma is just short of frothing at the mouth for that kind of transparency. "Please," she whispers, bending at the knees, her arms outstretched toward the Queen.

Encased within the warmth of someone who was rumoured to have none, Emma presses her face into the Queen's stomach, palms clutching at her back. She doesn't resist the urge to kiss the Queen's clothed navel, relishing the possessive tug of her hair as they hold on too tightly to each other.

"Go home, Emma," the Queen says gently, but she doesn't stop Emma from touching her, from placing feather light kisses along her stomach.

The taste of velvet sticks on her tongue as she kisses, pulling the Queen downwards to worship every inch of her. When they're finally at eye level, kneeling on the floor, Emma cups the Queen's face in her hands, taking her time to kiss where she pleases. She starts at the Queen's eyelid, then the other, down to her cheek, her jawline, her chin. Emma kisses the tip of her nose, her forehead, her ear. The shape of her face is mapped out with Emma's lips, savouring every feature before the Queen grows impatient.

There are questions on her tongue, Emma can see, but she has no time for them today, not when her heart feels too close to bursting. "Touch me," she demands, "kiss me," Emma begs.

The Queen chuckles humourlessly, fingernails digging into Emma's neck and dragging down to leave red welts in its place. "Fuck me," she breathes over Emma's words, "and don't you _dare_ kiss me again."

It's Emma's turn to laugh, the sound carrying in the cannery. When she tugs the Queen forward by the back of her neck, their lips meeting messily in the middle, no one has complaints then. The cannery is dirty and dark, a place where no one would think of doing this, but Emma doesn't care when she allows the Queen's tongue to slide into her mouth, a moan vibrating around it. They kiss until Emma feels lightheaded, until she knows she has to break for air but can't bear the thought of separating from the Queen.

This is madness, she knows.

An insanity that keeps her tethered to the Queen when they push back for air, lips finding the skin of her neck, and her fingers tangled in dark locks. She keeps kissing; teeth, and lips, and tongue, until a bruise surfaces with pride. Emma doesn't notice, not with the Queen breathing hard, pressing Emma closer to her as if she would ever stop.

"Emma," the Queen mewls, refusing to lay back down on the dusty floor, her dress still clinging to her curves and shielding her body from greedy eyes. Emma doesn't mind either way, not when there's a sheen of sweat on the Queen's skin, and her spine is arched just so. Her chest constricts with an emotion when the Queen breathes in to speak.

It rushes out of her, the weight of it all overwhelming, the "I love you," breathed out in the space between them. This isn't just about sex, this is about an ache that thrives on her magic, about a sacrifice she had made to become the darkness, a sacrifice made specifically so that _this_ darkness from Regina could survive. "I love you," she says again, this time with conviction. She wants to say it again, to speak it in front of everyone, to shout it and whisper it, to _show_ it, but the Queen stares at her agape.

"You mean _her_?" There are tears in her eyes, her words sounding as if they are spoken around a lump in her throat. "Not Regina," she clarifies, "but the both of us together, the formidable Madame Mayor. Did she tell you that she hated me, that _instinct_ to kill?"

Emma's hold around the Queen's waist tightens, pulling them closer together once more. "You _are_ Regina," she breathes, "you are the one I saw in the Enchanted forest, you are the one who challenged and seduced me, you were one who made Henry strong. I love _you_." When she was the Dark One, she had entertained the idea of bringing back the Evil Queen, but her need to please everyone had outshined her true desires. Dreams of death it seems, does the job better.

"I am incapable of love. It makes one _weak_." The Queen speaks in rehearsed lines, each word becoming softer the longer Emma holds her close, the gentler her kisses along her jawline become.

They move like a current, drifting together in a rhythm that has already been predetermined. Emma doesn't believe in fate, but the tremors in her hand have all but disappeared, and her visions of death seems but a distant dream. "Become one with me," she says instead, fumbling to find an opening in the Queen's dress, "I'll love enough for the both of us."

"No, you won't," the Queen whispers, reaching behind herself to pull down the hidden zipper on her dress, "but you can try."

Emma doesn't argue, not when she drinks in the darkness, the taste of salt on her tongue as she traces the curves of the Queen's body. The ache in her chest begins to subside, her pink shirt opened and thrown somewhere behind her as they lay down atop their clothes, dust from the cannery floor coating their legs.

Nothing about this is as Emma imagined, but the Queen kisses her thoughts away and plunges into places that makes her scream; _Regina_, _Regina_, _Regina_ on her lips as stars explode behind her eyelids.

When they're done and spent, sweat lining their bodies, she takes pleasure in tracing over the Queen's skin with her hands, mapping out routes she hadn't taken, and the ones she had claimed. "I might…" she hears, the Queen's voice small and unsure, "love you." Emma stops breathing, her body frozen to try and better process the Queen's words. In her shock, her hand is guided to rest between the Queen's breasts, the strength of her heartbeat felt beneath Emma's palm. "It hurts to look at you too," she confides, "it hurts to breathe."

The temptation to curl her fingers and plunge into the Queen's chest is pushed away. There will be other times to look and inspect a heart she has only heard legends about. "I want you," Emma reassures, "I want you to be happy."

Drawing Emma closer to her, their bodies tangled together in an intimate embrace, the Queen sighs out contentedly. "I am happy," she admits, heart full with the knowledge that someone wants her, someone whole and _precious_.

Emma nestles closer to the Queen, playing with the ends of her long hair. Come tomorrow and her routine will be different, her desires shifted and the visions of death still haunting her, but for today, she's in love, and naked, and sleeping with the enemy.

Tomorrow can wait.


End file.
